SEVEN
U7-P2
You see me. But only in my imagination. No wonder I keep hitting the walls of reality.
U7-P3
I am a portal
I am an experience
And still I am
Not a pass through
Don’t bother me
With your intrigue
I am for dives
Not dips
For depth
Not width
Length
Is not linear here
So if you see me
Resting
Rippling
Reflecting lights
From day and night skies
Be mindful
If you do not want
To see yourself
And dive into
Your own reflection
Pass me by
*********
How do trees decide which branches are no longer going to grow leaves?
I am grateful for my roots, buried in the earth. I am grateful for my trunk, firm and unwavering. I am grateful for my branches, even the ones that no longer yield leaves. But it is only at the furthest edges of myself -- the newest, the most angular, the most fragile -- that leaves and flowers grow.
Yet winter is coming again to remind me what I look like bare.
I have not yet made it through the heat or the colors. And I am already anticipating the cold and the gray. The stillness. The bite. Moments spent chasing the sun.
What then of colorful edges when I become a gray silhouette against an endless sky?
*********
I feel held. I feel claimed. I feel protected. Not directed. But certainly guided. For the decisions are mine and the choices are available. Clear. Not in the sense of crystal or windexed panes that everybody can peer through. But more like a gaze. Like staring directly at pain and seeing her whole shape. Seeing her whole face and knowing that she is mine. Held. Claimed. Protected. Not directed. But certainly guided.
U7-P8
“I’m sorry that I knew and ignored my knowing.” Grace again. Repeatedly.
There were choices to be made. Hypotheses to be tested. Based on prior evidence, I expected this to happen. But I had to be certain.
So I traveled that path again. Laid in that earth again. Just to be sure that it was really a grave. Burned myself up again. Turned to ash again. Just to be sure that rising is my birthright.
*********
Abandoned at the root. Or the womb. At whatever room where care was needed. Rejected at the heart. Or the lungs. At whatever space was necessary to hold my grief. So I found solace in my head. That hollow, eager space that might be filled. Since all else were voids, hungry for what they would never eat, devouring anything that might satiate. But not even for a moment.
There is a ceaseless hunger in all my parts. Even that space where there was idea and possibility gets bigger and always craves more.
I am tired of eating everything that doesn’t fill. Oh, God, please send food.